


Blue Light

by Zdenka



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Writing rainbow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-17 22:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19964311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: Celebrimbor tests a new idea, sets Narvi a challenge, and makes a confession.





	Blue Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/gifts).



> Written for the Writing Rainbow flash exchange.

“There’s one more thing I want to show you,” Celebrimbor says as they leave the House of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Narvi gives him a questioning look. Celebrimbor has shown him all his current projects on this visit, or so he thought.

Celebrimbor halts at the bottom of the wide steps. “I was considering the moon-letters you showed me,” he says, his face lighting with enthusiasm. “And it gave me the idea to try some experiments.” He fishes one sheet of parchment from the stack he is carrying and offers it to Narvi. Only one line is written on it. _In all times and places:_ —a fragmentary sentence ending mid-thought. The rest is blank.

Narvi examines the page, tilting it back and forth in the bright sunlight. It shows nothing. “A riddle?”

There is a glint of mischief in Celebrimbor’s eyes. “If you like.”

Narvi folds the parchment carefully and tucks it into his tunic for safe-keeping. “I will give it my due attention, Master Celebrimbor!”

“I will await the result of your investigations, Master Narvi! How long until your next visit?”

“About two weeks. I have work to do also, you know.”

Celebrimbor tilts his head in invitation. “What is it this time? Wall-carving? More doors?”

Narvi’s pack is in his hand, but he is in no hurry to leave. The sun is pleasantly warm, and there are hours yet till sundown. He sits down on one of the courtyard benches—one intentionally set at Dwarf-height—and tells him about his plans, idly watching members of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain pass back and forth along the path to the doors. Celebrimbor sits next to him with his long legs stretched out in front of him, seeming not to care that the bench’s low height makes him look a little absurd. His shoulder presses companionably against Narvi’s. Celebrimbor took off his tunic to work in the forge, and perhaps Narvi is only imagining that he can feel the heat of Celebrimbor’s skin through his light shirt.

At last Narvi gets up, reluctantly. He thinks Celebrimbor might walk with him to the city gates, but just then a younger jewel-smith comes out of the doors, her gaze searching back and forth. “Master Celebrimbor?”

Celebrimbor rises also and lifts a hand in acknowledgement. “About the riddle,” he says carefully. “You can take as much time as you wish to answer.”

“How long do you think it will take me?” Narvi returns, feigning offense. “I won’t need two weeks to solve it.”

Celebrimbor’s expression softens into a smile. “In two weeks, then.” They clasp hands, and Narvi turns to watch Celebrimbor’s tall figure pass in through the great doors blazoned with the Star of Fëanor.

Leaving Ost-in-Edhil, Narvi takes the road eastward towards Khazad-dûm. The road is broad and well-made, the stone fitting together without a crack; he placed some of them with his own hands. It pleases him that this road should be well-maintained and easy to travel, linking Ost-in-Edhil and Khazad-dûm closely together. He places a hand on his tunic, feeling the shape of the parchment that Celebrimbor gave him, and he finds himself smiling.

The work has accumulated in his absence. He has papers to sort through, an urgent commission to finish. It is not until a few days later that he has a moment to consider Celebrimbor’s parchment again.

There will be words that can be read only by moonlight, he suspects. Not bound to a specific day or time, since Celebrimbor will not wish to wait through the moon’s waxing and waning for Narvi to read it. But Celebrimbor said he had been experimenting. There must be something more. Narvi tugs on his beard thoughtfully. Celebrimbor was careful to give it to him only after they left the forge, instead of bringing it up during any of their earlier conversations.

Forge-fire, then? Or fire of any kind?

He brings the parchment under a torch to read it. The first line is still there, clearly written in black ink. _In all times and places:_

Narvi is not surprised to see lines of red-gold ink leap into sight below it, the words written in Celebrimbor’s familiar handwriting.

 _Where the forge’s fire leaps up to the sounds of hammers,_  
_I wish to work with you, creating wonders_  
_in some new and unimaginable form,_  
_to gain_  
_with my hands_  
_the fairest jewel_  
_in this city._

 _I offer you_  
_an interlocking puzzle box_  
_and the key is_  
_yours._

It is signed _Tyelperinquar_.

Intriguing, certainly. Narvi reads the words again. He smiles, picturing Celebrimbor’s eyes glinting with delight at devising the challenge. What sort of over-elaborate Elvish riddle has Celebrimbor set him this time? They do give each other puzzle boxes sometimes, with hidden catches or expertly designed locks, and challenge each other to open it. Narvi is still proud of the one that took Celebrimbor three weeks to solve. But no box came with the parchment, and no key. Are they hidden somewhere? Is it a metaphor, or another layer of the riddle? Perhaps moonlight will reveal more.

When night falls and the moon is up, Narvi walks outside onto the mountain’s slopes. There are words, written in silver moon-letters. While the fire-writing was in the Elven-tongue and using Elvish letters—the ones Celebrimbor said were invented by his grandfather—he has written these lines in Narvi’s own language, in Dwarvish runes.

 _Where the Moon shines on the mountain’s height beside the cold waters of Kheled-zâram,_  
_I wish to walk with you;_  
_in Ost-in-Edhil beneath the stars,_  
_awake and walk with me._  
_Will I reach_  
_your clever words and your bright skill,_  
_worth more than_  
_I give in return?_  
_The skill of my hands,_  
_like a riddle_  
_hiding truth inside truth,_  
_only_  
_if you wish it._

And the signature, _Celebrimbor of Eregion._

Hiding truth inside truth? There is another layer here, Narvi is certain of it. Celebrimbor must have more in mind than to pay him compliments or invite him on a moonlit walk. He frowns, trying to remember how the lines of fire-writing were laid out on the page. He touches the page with his fingers, blocking out spaces. Yes, the spacing allows for a third set of writing. But how to read it? Firelight and moonlight . . . Not sunlight, for when Celebrimbor gave it to him the page appeared blank except for the first line. And not starlight, since the stars now shine overhead and their light reveals nothing more than the moon did. Something teases at the back of Narvi’s mind, but he can’t quite capture it.

He sets the matter aside, considering it in snatched spare moments over the next few days. He considers and discards various chemical reactions. Certain substances combined together might explode, or provide a brief and brilliant light. But he could only discover the right one by accident, and he is certain Celebrimbor means for him to find the answer.

He is sketching designs on the wall of a friend’s new forge, to be carved later, when the image comes to him of Celebrimbor entering the doors of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, with their many-rayed star.

That has come into his mind for a reason; what was it? He continues his work, letting his mind chip away at it. The name Fëanor means “spirit of fire,” Celebrimbor told him once. (He has noticed before, Celebrimbor delights in taking apart words and reassembling them like bright bits of stone in a mosaic.) Perhaps that gave him the idea for writing that could only be read by firelight. And the Elf-letters he uses are called Fëanorian also. Fëanor’s star, Fëanorian letters, Fëanorian . . . lamps. A crystal that shines with its own light, a clear blue glow that is not firelight or moonlight. Narvi smiles at the wall where no one can see him.

Narvi has a Fëanorian lamp, made and given to him by Celebrimbor. Celebrimbor seems fond of giving gifts to people in general and to Narvi in particular, especially things that he has made. It hasn’t been all one-sided; Narvi enjoys bringing him things also, whether it’s an unusual mineral formation or a new experimental smelting technique. When Narvi sees Celebrimbor examining his gift between long, graceful fingers or his eyes lighting up with curiosity, Narvi considers himself well rewarded.

Narvi uses the lamp when in the mines or for certain more delicate projects where he wants a steady light, but it isn’t needed for everyday tasks in his workshop, and he put it away carefully before he left for Ost-in-Edhil this last time.

He takes it out now. Narvi slides off the lamp’s cover, a beautiful piece of silver filigree. The crystal within shines as brightly as the day Celebrimbor gave it to him. He pulls out Celebrimbor’s parchment more slowly, conscious that he’s about to set foot on some bridge that can’t be uncrossed. Blue light springs forth, and curling letters in blue ink are suddenly there for him to read. One line jumps out near the end: _I love you._

Ah. Trust an Elf, trust Celebrimbor to hide that one truth under so many layers. He reads the rest. _With my grandfather’s lamps as witness, I wish—to take your hand in mine and hear you pledge yourself mine as I am yours . . ._

“Ah, my friend,” he says in rueful affection. “Could you not just say it?” Perhaps not. Celebrimbor is prodigal with words when he speaks of smithcrafting techniques, new things he wants to build, ideas possible or impossible that he wants to try. But when it comes to his deeper emotions, Celebrimbor sets a guard on his tongue, builds a Noldorin fortress-city about his heart. If Narvi gave him no answer, he suspects Celebrimbor would not speak of it again.

Of course, he will answer. When he looks at Celebrimbor’s words, he feels warmed all through, as if he were standing near the forge-fire. But first, he wishes to read his letter in its entirety.

It takes a little juggling, but he brings the letter, a torch, and the Fëanorian lamp outside under the moonlight. The three texts are there, interlocking like the pieces of a puzzle, three different colors of ink forming a single message.

Somewhat less than a fortnight later, they are together in Celebrimbor’s forge. Celebrimbor is seated in a low chair, Narvi standing behind him. Narvi delights in the freedom to run his fingers through Celebrimbor’s loose hair, in the way Celebrimbor sighs and tilts his head back into Narvi’s hands.

“I’m sorry,” Celebrimbor says in a low voice. “I couldn’t say it directly. I know it was foolish.”

“Is it a custom of your people,” Narvi asks mildly, “to make a simple matter so complicated?”

Celebrimbor swallows. “Not precisely. But to put effort into something, to do things the most difficult way—I wanted you to know that I meant it.”

Narvi bends down to kiss him. They are in danger of becoming distracted, but Narvi pulls away. “Let me finish.”

There are still a handful of sparkling jewels on the worktable beside him. He binds the gems of his own shaping into Celebrimbor’s hair, letting the light catch their different colors: pale and clear like the moon over Kheled-zâram, red-yellow like the forge-fire, blue like the clear light of a Fëanorian lamp.

Folded near Narvi’s heart is a letter. It appears blank, save for a single line, but he knows what it says.

* * *

In all times and places:

_where the Moon shines on the mountain’s height beside the cold waters of Kheled-zâram,_

**where the forge’s fire leaps up to the sounds of hammers,**

with my grandfather’s lamps as witness, I wish—

_I wish to walk with you,_

**I wish to work with you, creating wonders,**

to take your hand in mine and hear you pledge yourself mine as I am yours.

_In Ost-in-Edhil beneath the stars,_

deep in the heart of the mountain where your fathers sleep,

in far-distant Ages when Sun and Moon are quenched, when Light is rekindled

**in some new and unimaginable form,**

there too _awake and walk with me._

 _Will I reach_ my hope’s fulfilment?

 **To gain** _your clever words and your bright skill,_

to know your body with my eyes and **with my hands,**

the dear kiss of your mouth _worth more than_ **the fairest jewel.**

 _I give in return_ a place **in this city** I have made,

my accursed blood, my name in every tongue,

 _the skill of my hands,_ my heart.

 **I offer you** these words _like a riddle,_

**an interlocking puzzle box**

_hiding truth inside truth,_

but the answer is simple,

 **and the key is** _only_ this: I love you.

 **Yours** _if you wish it,_

_Celebrimbor of Eregion_

**Tyelperinquar** son of Curufinwë Atarinkë of the House of Fëanor

**Author's Note:**

> My draft had the different parts of the letter color-coded, but I don't think that would carry over well to AO3.


End file.
